Fly From Heaven
by thegraytigress
Summary: Bucky's not who he used to be, even if he is in the same place, whispering the same things and holding onto the same hopes. All he knows is that he believes in Steve. He believes in their friendship. He believes in his memories. And his memories are telling him that Steve is going to be okay. Steve will come back.


**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, _and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is a companion piece to "Brother"; you don't need to read "Brother" to understand this story (but I hope you do! :)). No slash in this. Just healthy doses of bromance and a tiny bit of Steve/Sharon (for a little taste of something different – I still love Steve/Natasha!). Warnings for a possible major character death, so bring your tissues. Thanks for reading!

**FLY FROM HEAVEN**

"I have to wear all this stuff to see him?"

Tony tenses and Bruce looks frightened. _Frightened._ He's never seen either of them frightened before, and he's seen them in plenty of terrifying situations. He hasn't been with the Avengers for long, not more than a year, and in that time together they have faced hordes of monsters, deadly robots, evil men and terrorists, and vicious aliens. This last attack of aliens (Thor called them the Kree) was a bad one. Blue monsters that struck hard and had no mercy. They won, but barely, and at a great cost. "It's not safe," Bruce says softly. "You need to wear it."

Bucky stares at Bruce's hand which is thrust out toward him. It holds a white outfit made of thick and protective cloth and rubber. He stares at it, not sure what to make of it. Then he stares at Bruce and at Tony. They're still frightened. But more than that, they're lost. They're _grieving_. He can hardly breathe when he realizes it. "Is he going to be okay?"

They say nothing. Bucky realizes it's because they can't. They're still reeling from the shock. Down the hall he sees Natasha, white-faced with dolor deep in her eyes, and Clint, his arm around her in an uncharacteristically open show of support. He's not sure if Clint needs it or she does, but he suspects it's both. Thor is there, too, suffering with his anger. He was the one closest to Steve when he was hit. There was nothing he could have done, and honestly the blow hadn't looked all that bad. One of the Kree's swords had glanced Steve's abdomen, cutting through his suit and his skin, and Steve shrugged it off and kept fighting. It wasn't until the invasion was repelled and the team gathered in the decimated streets of LA that Steve went pale and started slurring his words. A few scant seconds later he toppled from his feet and passed out. After that, there was panic and a lot of it.

Sam sets his hand to Thor's shoulder. Thor's been pacing, pacing fast and quick with useless, pent-up energy that can't do a damn bit of good now. He seems like he wants to shrug Sam off, but he doesn't. Sam's eyes are big and shining in barely restrained tears. Thor grabs him and pulls him closer.

The team is barely hanging on. They're watching through the observation window. They're watching. They're waiting.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Bucky asks again, turning from the difficult scene to search Tony and Bruce, undoubtedly the smartest among them, for answers. His voice is rough. That panic is coming back. He was next to Steve when he lost consciousness and fell. He has fast reflexes, made quick and unerring by his time as a sniper in the army and as the Winter Soldier, and he caught Steve before he hit the street. Although, when he thinks about it, he's always had fast reflexes, and he's been catching Steve his whole life. And he's seen Steve hurt before. His memories are coming back now, still hazy at times, but he knows this very clearly. And he knows Steve's always been okay. "Is he?"

"No," Bruce says. "It's moving too fast. Whatever was on that sword… I don't know. I don't know what to do. I don't – we've got nothing… And the serum's not beating it…" The words go on and on. Bruce is trying to explain. Bruce is trying hard to make him understand. Tony doesn't try. There are tears in his eyes, _tears_ in Tony Stark's eyes, and he looks away to hide them. Bucky can still see them because they drip off Tony's face and into his shaking hands as he tries to wipe them away. Bruce is still talking. It's a long thing Bucky doesn't understand; his brain's not equipped for science and never has been. Something about the sword carrying an alien virus and once it got into Steve's bloodstream, it was already too late. Something about the super soldier serum failing and infection spreading like wildfire and that it's already damaged his heart and his lungs and his brain. Major organs are compromised. His fever is too high. He's in septic shock. It all means one thing, and Bucky's smart enough to recognize what that is. "I'm sorry," Bruce whispers. "There's not much time. I'm sorry."

There's anger now. Bucky has never been good at controlling his temper. As the Winter Soldier, he wasn't allowed to feel. Steve helped him come back from that darkness and damage, and since then he's been feeling a lot. And he's back to not being good at managing it. He burns hot and fast. He just crawled out from the horror, from the programming, from the torture and everything HYDRA did to him. He just got Steve back, just got his memories back, just got _himself_ back, and they were whole again. Together again. It's like the old days, a long friendship and brotherhood behind them to strengthen them and an equally long one in front of them. The bright future with the world stretching before them. Sure they live dangerous lives; Steve's Captain America and leader of the Avengers and Bucky's the Winter Soldier. They fight and they get knocked down and they get hurt. But they always get back up. Steve brought him back, damn it, and this is not how it's going to end!

A tear slips down Bruce's face with all the gravity of heaven falling into hell. "I'm so, _so_ sorry, Bucky."

He wants that nothingness again, that cold apathy, that lack of conscience. He wants it worse than ever before because he knows there's some comfort there. Distance. And when he can't go back, he wants to hurt something. He wants to blame something. He wants to go back to that moment and be at Steve's side and make it different. Make Steve move just a hair faster so that sword hits his shield instead of his stomach. He wants… He wants–

"He wants to see you, but you have to wear this. I'm sorry. I really am." It's not clear what Bruce is apologizing for now. For not being able to save Steve. For the failure of science and medicine, the two things that he always deems powerful and infallible and absolute. Or just for Bucky having to wear this bulky and uncomfortable suit. "You need to be careful. Limit your contact with him. I don't know. It may not be contagious. It probably isn't because we've already all been exposed and no one else is sick. But you shouldn't take chances. He's–" _He's a super soldier. He's Captain America, and this thing took him down in a couple of hours. _"Wear the suit."

Tony drives his hand into the wall of the hallway and storms away. Bruce winces and doesn't finish what he was going to say but stays to help Bucky put on the suit on. It's hot and heavy and unwieldy and somehow connected to its own air supply because when he breathes it sounds like that Darth Vader character from _Star Wars_ which Tony made them watch a few months ago. Bruce is still talking. Bucky doesn't care. There are signs everywhere, yellow signs and red signs with a symbol and a warning about potential biohazards. He walks through some sort of airlock, a clean room Bruce calls it, and then he's inside quarantine.

It's not very big, and it's white and gray and looks stark, cold, and sterile. Steve's in its only bed. There are machines around him, but they're not connected save for a monitor that's beeping and displaying his vital signs. They don't look good. Steve looks worse. He's pale, his skin so dull it's nearly gray. He's shivering. There's blood crusted under his nose and on the corner of his mouth. There are wounds of some sort that weren't there before, lesions that are weeping red. They are scattered all around his body. His eyes are tight with pain and bright with fever. He looks like he's dying.

Bucky stays back, first because what he finds is so disturbing that his feet seem glued to the floor next to the door, and second because someone else is here. That person is also wearing the ridiculous suit, so Bucky can't see who it is. Still, he figures it out from the soft, weeping breaths and shaking voice and the way the suit leans over Steve and tenderly holds his hand. There's desperation, even if it's restricted and masked by the folds of plastic and cloth and rubber. Desperation for touch, for nearness, for comfort. For something _more_ than this.

But there's nothing more. The bent figure whispers, "I love you." Steve's hand is set slowly over his chest. Sharon is shaking, her face wet with tears and her eyes filled with anger and pain and frustration, as she turns to leave. She is bravely holding back sobs, fighting against her complete collapse though Bucky can see it building with each shallow, trembling breath and uncoordinated step. Their gazes meet for a second. She doesn't say anything, but he can see it in her eyes. _I can't do anything. I can't hold him. I can't make him feel better. I can't make it better. I can't even kiss him goodbye._

Damn this all to hell.

She's gone. Bucky stands still for a moment more, a moment that feels like an eternity, before finally finding it within himself to move. There's an inclination to run again, to go back to the dark places in his heart where there's the safety of detachment. There's a desire to get away from what he's knows is coming. He knows pain. Physical agony, mental destruction, emotional turmoil. This sort of pain is especially familiar to him. And as he realizes that, he knows he can't run. This is his place. _His_ place and his alone. A step forward. Then two. Three. And he's beside Steve's bed.

For a moment, he thinks Steve's dead already. If not for the weak rattle of his breath and the beeping of the machines, he would have believed it. But Steve's not. His head shifts weakly on the pillow. There are drops of red on the white fabric. His eyes open to slits. And his dried, cracked lips shift into the weakest smile Bucky's ever seen. "Punk," he whispers.

Bucky smiles, too. It's just as frail. "Jerk."

The pink of Steve's tongue comes out to wet his lips. He weakly raises his hand, Captain America's hand that until a few hours ago was among the strongest and steadiest in the world. It trembles so bad that Bucky takes it just to stop it. "Others okay?" he asks.

Bucky sighs and nods. "Everyone except you." The team is watching through the observation window. They can't hear, but he feels like he knows what they're saying. What they're feeling. What they're thinking. _You're so strong. So stubborn. Keep fighting because we need you._ _We need Captain America._

Steve seems relieved. Of course he is. He takes care of his team, first and foremost. He always has. The Howling Commandos. The Avengers. He takes care of them. Bucky wonders if he has any idea how crushed they would be without him. He wonders if Steve thinks that they can rise again. That they can find a new captain. A new leader.

They can't. But Steve thinks so. He knows so. He's in pain and he can barely breathe, but he has something he needs to say. "You pick up the shield," he orders softly. His grip on Bucky's hand turns painful and frantic. "You do it."

Bucky is filled with so many things. A storm of wild and unrestrained emotion. It frightens him for its power. He's not used to feeling like this. "No," he stammers. He looks down at where Steve's fingers are locked around his wrist like steel. It's the flesh and blood wrist, so it hurts. "No, I'm not gonna–"

"Bucky." Steve's eyes are open and burning. Another storm of wild and unrestrained emotion. That frightens him even more, Steve's desperation. "It's gotta be you. Please. I want you to do it." It's too much. Steve loses his strength in a flurry of violent, vicious coughs, a paroxysm of misery that wracks his form like an earthquake. He sobs, fighting for every breath, his lungs seizing and blood splattering from his lips to the pillow.

Bucky watches helplessly, wondering if he should call for help, but what can they do? What can anyone do now? Memories push at him, so many memories, and tears burn his eyes. "Steve," he says, his voice tremoring even though he's seen this _so many times_. He knows that now. He knows this is the stuff of their past. His nightmares. "Stevie, come on. Calm down. You just gotta breathe, pal. You just gotta keep breathing." He knows what to say, because this is a script that they've rehearsed plenty of times. For a while, their roles flipped. Steve took care of him, called him and brought him back, coaxed him onward in a struggle that seemed insurmountable. For a while. But now where they're back where they always were. And he's not quite sure how it ended back then. He's not sure how it's going to end now. Bruce said it was a matter of time, and the team is watching and waiting and grieving. He's not sure he can let Steve go. _I have to stop this. It's me. I have to do something to stop it._

The torture continues for another horrible moment, a moment filled with the computers beeping their alarms and Steve's wide eyes and reddened face and hoarse, miserable gasping and rough choking. "Come on," Bucky says. He's in the chair at Steve's side and – to hell with Bruce's warnings – grasping his friend's shoulders and pulling him closer. "You just gotta breathe and you'll be okay."

Steve's not going to be okay. He catches his wind enough to whisper, "I'm dyin', Buck."

The burning and stinging in his eyes gets worse, and the world blurs. "No, you're not. And even if you were, you've been dying before, and you always beat it." Steve's body is so tense with agony, but he relaxes just a little at that. Bucky wishes he could wipe his eyes, but he can't. So he smiles instead and blinks everything back until things are focused again and he can be strong. "You've licked so many things in your life, even before you were Captain America. Haven't ya?"

Steve closes his eyes, exhausted. He's breathing easier again. It's so loud, the rasp of air in and out of his mouth. "Yeah," he agrees softly.

They're quiet after that, Steve slowly recovering, Bucky watching him and wishing with every bit of his heart and soul that what he just said was true. Maybe it is. He's lost track of the number of times in his life that he's watched Steve look death in the eye and bravely beat it. That Steve's nearly been lost only to come back. He's always been this way. Sometimes Bucky can't remember, and sometimes he's still not sure, but he knows that. _That's _how this is going to end. How it's going to play out. Steve can beat anything. He can. Bucky knows he can.

Steve's eyes blink tiredly. "You remember… Jameson's store?" he whispers.

This Bucky does remember. Things come easier now, pouring out of the darkness that used to be in his head. "'Course I do."

"Loved his licorice." Bucky smiles faintly. Steve licks his lips again. "I can… I can almost taste it." That seems odd, given Steve's reddened teeth and bloody mouth, but his fever is so high he's delirious. "Dunno why I'm thinkin' about that."

Bucky does. It's odd, too, that he's remembering some things that Steve doesn't. Bucky always used to bring Steve that licorice when he was too sick to go outside. Bruce will probably have some sort of scientific explanation for why that's coming to him now. Or a psychological one. Association of a sensation, a taste or touch or smell, with a traumatic experience. Or the virus eating away at Steve is pulling random things, fleeting things, from the back of his mind to the front. It doesn't matter. Steve loved that stuff.

"Sorry to be doin' this to you," Steve says. "Again."

"Shut up," Bucky snaps. "You're not doing anything."

"You've had to watch me like this so many times…" Steve's eyes rove the ceiling. He's shaking again, his body mindlessly jerking against the white sheets and the white gown that covers him. "So many times. Always savin' me. Must be tired of it."

"Yeah, honestly."

"I know I am. So tired, Buck." He winces and closes his eyes. "I think this is it. The last time."

"No."

"Bucky, I don't want you to–"

_"No."_

Steve doesn't say anything more after that. He struggles to keep breathing because that's what Bucky told him to do, what Bucky always told him to do. And Bucky watches. He watches his friend's chest rise and fall with each broken, soft wheeze. He watches muscles twist and contort in pain. The wince finally claims Steve's face, the wince he's been bravely trying to hold back. Bucky watches the color drain second by second from Steve's skin. He watches the tears slip down Steve's temples. He watches and he thinks and he remembers. "I'd bring you a whole damn box of that licorice if I could."

Steve doesn't answer. "Steve?" Bucky sees he's lost consciousness. He sits uselessly then, watching Steve sleep and trying his damnedest to remember what he's supposed to do. What he's supposed to say. The end of the script. He needs to remember how to save Steve's life.

* * *

It was the day of Bucky's seventeenth birthday when Steve got sick. Granted, Steve was always sick. He always had a cough or a cold or _something_; his small and weak body and equally small and weak lungs were constantly threatened by the tamest of germs or even the dust in the air. The last few days he'd been ill with a raspy throat and fever, but surprisingly he'd overcome that without too much trouble. Still, his mother had kept him home from school that week, and Bucky was coming over to see him.

The minute Mrs. Rogers opened the door to their small apartment, Bucky knew something was wrong. He saw it in her face. She was a frail woman herself, someone who'd seen too much pain and loss in her life, and he'd learned early on in his friendship with Steve to read the signs of how serious something was from the burden in her eyes or the tightness of her frown or the pallor of her cheeks. Her eyes were dark and wet with grief and worry. The frown on her face was so heavy it creased her brow and added incredible age to her waiflike features. She was as white as snow. "James, you shouldn't come in."

"What's the matter?"

"Steve's worse. I sent for the doctor, but you shouldn't come in."

He wasn't about to be stopped. He'd seen Steve yesterday afternoon, and he'd been _fine_. He'd had healthy color from a breaking fever, and he'd been a little weak, but his eyes had been bright and full of vigor and he'd smiled and joked and laughed. They'd talked about Lucy Simmons, the girl that Bucky was taking out that night for his birthday, and what a looker she was. She had a sister. Bucky was going to set her up with Steve. They were going to go dancing.

Worse meant this seemingly simple bout wasn't simple at all. Worse meant something was _really_ wrong. Steve couldn't be worse. _He couldn't be._ "Let me see him," Bucky pleaded. She hesitated. That only amplified Bucky's worry. "_Please_, Mrs. Rogers."

Finally she nodded and opened the door to the apartment wider. Bucky was inside in a breath, bursting through the small space and down its little hall. His feet thundered on the old, creaky floors. He rushed into to the tiny bedroom on the left. Steve's bedroom.

Steve lay on his rumpled bed. He didn't notice Bucky come in at first. It was so damn cold inside, the March snows and ice caked on the window, but Steve wasn't shivering. He was too sick. He was too sick to even shiver. "Steve," Bucky called quietly from the door. Steve didn't answer. Bucky came inside and called again. "Steve! Stevie!"

That did it. Steve managed to turn his head. His eyes were burning bright with fever. "Hi, Buck," he rasped. "I can hear ya. Don't have to yell."

Bucky couldn't find his voice for a second. His heart was thundering. He crouched at Steve's bed. "What happened?"

Steve grimaced and licked his lips. "Dyin'," he said with the most pathetic grin Bucky had ever seen.

Steve probably meant that as a joke. His ill health wasn't something they ever took seriously because to do that would make it too real and too upsetting. So they joked a lot about his bum lungs and scrawny hide and a heart that was already so broken that the dames really couldn't do any more damage to it. This time it wasn't funny. But he tried to make it funny, because otherwise it was too much. "Shut up. You just want me to feel bad for you."

"Is it workin'?"

"No." That was a lie. Bucky felt horrible. Steve never wanted sympathy. He never wanted anything, other than to be helpful and useful and strong. He was all those things, even if he was sick all the time. Bucky didn't understand why no one else realized that. Still, he donned a smile and carried on with the levity. "You just want me to spend my birthday with you. It's easier to ask, you idiot."

Steve moaned. "Bucky, no. Don't cancel your date. You've been waitin' to get her to–"

"I can keep waiting." Steve coughed, his small body wracked in pain as air wouldn't come. Bucky grabbed him and steadied him. He could see from one glance how serious this was. A slight brush of his hand to Steve's forehead revealed he was burning up with a fever, a fever that was much higher than the one he'd had a couple of days ago. Steve was bathed in sweat, his nightshirt soaked through with it, and his hands and knees were red and swollen around the joints. He was in pain. Bucky had seen Steve sick many times before, battling through the flu and bronchitis and even pneumonia once, but this was beyond any of that. Steve was scared.

Bucky was, too. "You just keep breathing," he ordered. "Doc's coming. He'll fix you."

Eventually Steve got his body back under his control. And eventually the doctor did come. He was an older gentleman, Irish like everyone here, who took one look at Steve and his face betrayed every bit about how bad it really was. Bucky had harbored some floundering sense of hope that this was okay, just another ailment that Steve being Steve would conquer, but his frown like Steve's mother's frown had dashed it. Bucky stepped outside while the older man examined Steve, listening to his heart and his breathing and counting his pulse. He took Steve's temperature and stared in his glazed eyes and felt places under Steve's jaw and his chest and belly. He looked over Steve's distended joints. And then the man turned to Bucky, who was in the hallway, pacing and chewing on his thumbnail in nervousness. "You can go back in, son," the doctor said. He had no encouraging smile. He had nothing to give.

Bucky went back in. Steve was half awake, not quite aware, even as Bucky talked to him. He gave up in short order and listened instead to the hushed conversation going on in the hallway. The doctor and Steve's mother. "It's rheumatic fever," the doctor said gravely. "It's very bad."

"How bad?"

"There's nothing I can do." Bucky closed his eyes. This wasn't happening. Today had been like any other day. His ma's oatmeal and the smell of black coffee and his pa's cigar. School. Friends wishing him a happy birthday. Jameson's store and a cold soda pop. Pennies for that godawful black licorice Steve liked so much. Times were tough, but he always spared a few pennies for that. Times were tough, and Steve was sick and getting beat up all the time, but they had their whole damn futures ahead of them. They had the _whole world_ out there, waiting for them.

Steve's mother was crying. Her soft, desperate sobs were louder than thunder, than the rumble of the train that always shook their building. It rattled past, but still all Bucky could hear was Steve's mother, weeping and asking the doctor to do something to save her son. Begging him to take him to a hospital. It was too late for that. "You should… Sarah, please. You've seen this. You know I'm only being truthful." Bucky closed his eyes against the burn of tears. "You should call Father Flannigan."

"What're they sayin'?" Steve's weak rasp drew his attention, and he looked to his friend and his fever-bright eyes and sweat-streaked face.

"Nothing," he lied. "You're gonna be fine."

* * *

Steve's not really awake anymore. He hasn't been for the last few minutes. Bucky watches him. He can't make himself look anywhere else. It's been a while since he came in and took his place at Steve's bedside. Thirty minutes, he thinks. He wonders how much longer Steve will hang on. _As long as he has to. As long as it takes to beat this._

The suit is hotter and heavier than it was when he donned it. It's restrictive, a second skin made of material that's supposed to protect him from whatever alien pathogen that's running rampant in and laying waste to Steve's body. It's supposed to keep this horror isolated and contained. It's supposed to be a barrier so no one else will get sick, so no one else will…

"You're not gonna die," Bucky whispers harshly. His voice sounds weird to his own ears, made so by the suit compressing him and rendering him distant and ineffective. "You're gonna make it. You're gonna be fine."

Steve doesn't answer. He's fighting for every breath he takes. It's been so long since Steve was sick and small and asthmatic, but it isn't to Bucky. His memories are coming back as fresh and powerful and vivid as the day they were formed, and he can remember Steve before the serum almost as well as he can remember Steve after it. He remembers small Steve, Steve with a bloody nose and a black eye from a fight he had no business starting, and he remembers throwing his arm around those bony shoulders and tugging that small frame tight to his own. He'd been a giant compared to small Steve. And he remembers this Steve, tall and powerful Steve, the one who jumps from buildings without being hurt, the one who gets shot and gets back up again like it's nothing because it's nothing, the one whose chest is a wall of solid muscle and whose body never fails. His heart never fails, either. It never did then, and it won't now. He's remembering that, too.

"Keep breathing, Stevie," Bucky commands. That's his line, he thinks. What he needs to say. "You'll be fine." What he needs to believe. It comes naturally. He shakes his head. The silence is too much. Too hard. He's not used to Steve being quiet, even though his past tells him that Steve was a quiet kid and he used to be the loud one. It's another role reversal. He keeps talking to fill the stillness. "And I'm not picking up that shield of yours. I'm not. You don't need me to. You don't want me to. And I won't have to because you're gonna be okay." A part of him knows he's lying, both to Steve and himself. He's smarter now and wiser than he was back when they were boys in Brooklyn. He's been the Winter Soldier, so he knows something about death. He knows something about limits. And he knows Captain America isn't invincible. He knows this because he almost killed him. He can't lie, not to Steve and not to himself. The script is telling him to lie, and he can't do it. "I can't do this."

"Don't you think that, Buck," Steve whispers. "You're the only one who can." His eyes open a little again, and Bucky sees just a touch of that raw determination, that _stubbornness_, that kept Steve going every time he ever got sick. "You deserve it."

"Stop talking," Bucky hushes. He sees the struggle for oxygen, the onslaught of coughing and agony. He sees it coming seconds before it hits, but it's like it always was. He has so many memories of this and they're all rushing over him now. He has so many memories of watching helplessly as Steve's face crumples with the realization that his throat is closing and his lungs are rebelling and seizing and in a moment he won't be able to breathe. He _knows _this panic, this losing fight. He was never able to stop it before. That doesn't prevent him from trying. "Shut up and save your strength. You'll do yourself in, you hear me? _Stop._"

Steve stops. The next breath he drags into his body is long and shaking, but he holds it in his chest and doesn't lose it. And the next comes. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. For once, Bucky wins.

* * *

He went home to get his ma because his ma would know what to do. She saw the tears on his cheeks that he didn't have the strength to brush away. He didn't need to explain. His ma had expected this for forever, ever since her son and Sarah Rogers' boy became friends on their first day of school. She was a loud and firm but loving woman, and even though Bucky was on the verge of becoming a man, she swept him into her arms like he was still a small child. "Oh, love," she whispered. Her thick brogue was warm and familiar in his ear. "It was only a matter of time."

They went back to the Rogers' apartment. Steve's mother was following the doctor's advice and sending for the priest. She wasn't going to take Steve to the hospital. She was succumbing, accepting that there was nothing to be done. Hearing that made this nightmare real and undeniable. For the longest moment, Bucky wasn't willing to set foot back inside their apartment. He wasn't brave enough. He wasn't strong enough. Not for this.

The doctor had helped Mrs. Rogers move Steve from his bed into his mother's, which was larger and in a warmer area within the apartment. The air was cold and damp, and Steve was coughing. He couldn't stop. Bucky immediately went to him as the others spoke, the doctor and his ma to Steve's mother. His ma had gathered Mrs. Rogers' body in her own arms, shushing her as she cried. Bucky couldn't stand to watch. It wasn't time for this yet. It wasn't time.

Steve couldn't breathe. He was fighting hard now, straining for air. He was fading. His mother had put warm bricks in the bed around him to help ward away the chill, but it wasn't doing much. They were poor and there was no heat to be had. So Bucky did what he always did when there was no heat. He climbed into the bed beside Steve and pulled his friend tight to his own chest. Steve moaned, his skin searing hot, but Bucky wasn't dissuaded. The smell of sickness and stale sweat and death was suffocating, but he breathed as deeply as he could. "Come on, Steve," he whispered. "Breathe with me."

Steve wasn't awake enough to answer. He wasn't strong enough to struggle, even if he wanted to. Bucky grabbed his friend's thin, icy hand and held it over his chest, pulling him tighter against him so Steve could feel warmth and security and comfort. He felt Steve's heart laboring, quick and harsh and shallowly, underneath his hand. He could feel his own heart, just as fast and pained and frightened. He drew a deep breath and forced himself to calm. And another. And another. Steve's body moved with his own, rising and falling. "Breathe with me. I got you."

Steve whimpered. He squirmed with the onslaught of coughing, even with Bucky's strong arms around him and strong chest behind him. Even with Bucky squeezing him so tight that it was almost as if he was physically trying to _keep_ the life inside him. "You can do it, pal. I know you can. Nice and slow."

Minutes passed. Minutes filled with Bucky breathing deeply, showing Steve how, teaching him a rhythm and keeping it steady. Bucky wasn't by any means patient. He was hot-tempered and brash and impulsive, gifted with his father's short fuse, and he couldn't hardly keep still most days. But he was still and patient for Steve, breathing and whispering comfort and encouragement. And finally Steve's wheezing evened out, and he could get air into his body again. Relief pounded over Bucky, so strong and debilitating that he nearly cried from it, but he didn't. He just kept going so Steve would do the same.

In the quiet, he heard them outside the room. In the quiet, he could hear them praying. That was too hard, too much. Too soon. So he ignored it and focused on his breathing and Steve's breathing and the both of their hearts beating. "I got you," he promised. He pressed a kiss to the back of Steve's head. "I'm not letting you go."

* * *

He can't touch him now. He can't hold him. He can't make it better. He can't help him breathe. It's torture, the worst he's ever endured and he's endured some horrible, _horrible _things. He's uncomfortable with sweat and feeling trapped and claustrophobic. His skin itches with the need to move, to act, to do something because this isn't enough. He doesn't believe in God anymore. He thinks God must have died somewhere between HYDRA and Zola sticking their greedy fingers into his head to rip his memories away and Steve falling from the helicarrier into the Potomac, his body riddled with the Winter Soldier's bullets. He's not sure if Steve still believes in it all, either. He's never had the occasion to ask. He thinks they went to church every Sunday in their youth, dragged by their mothers. He thinks Steve always paid more attention. He knows Steve always seems to have faith. Hope.

Bucky looks down at their hands. He's got Steve's between his own, folded into his. This is the only contact they have, and it's hardly anything. Skin against rubber. Disease against sterility. Bucky slips his fingers over the back of Steve's hand, but he can't feel him. He can't feel anything. Steve was holding onto him so tightly, but now his fingers are weak and limp. Maybe it's because he's not in pain anymore. A part of Bucky is honestly relieved at that. Another part of him knows pain means life. It means _struggle_. And he doesn't want Steve to give up.

That's why he's there. To make sure Steve doesn't give up.

"I'm here, Steve," he says. "I got you." His voice still echoes in his head gear, distant and not his own. The lights shine on the face mask, overly bright and overly fluorescent, and everything seems harsh and cruel. He doesn't want to seem that way. This isn't how it's supposed to be. He wants to touch Steve and hold him and _anchor_ him. He needs to.

But he can't. "I'm here. You gotta keep fighting. You're stronger than this. You're stronger. You have to keep fighting. You made me come back to this world, so you need to stay with me. Til the end of the line, right? This isn't it. This isn't it."

He knows what Sharon was feeling. He knows it and hates it. Words are a pathetically poor substitute for touch, and they don't mean a damn thing in this hollow, white room with a wall of plastic and rubber between them. But the script tells him to keep talking so he does. He's afraid Steve won't listen because even he doesn't recognize his own voice.

* * *

Bucky had to let Steve go. His ma and Steve's mother came in with bowls of cool water and washcloths. They went to work trying to bring Steve's fever down from his head. Bucky could tell from the doctor's sad, grave face that he thought this was all in vain. He left, believing there was nothing to be done. Bucky was glad to see him go.

And Bucky was glad his ma was there with all of her fiery Irish temperament and simplicity and mulishness because Steve's mother was lost. She was trying now, trying to believe and have faith, but she was withering before Bucky's eyes. She had nursed Steve through countless illnesses, through so many long nights filled with coughing and fever and shivering. Bucky knew this because he'd seen it, and she bore the scars of what that sort of thing did to a mother so plainly. And her work in the ward allowed her no delusions. She knew the signs of mortal illness better than anyone, and she couldn't deny them this time. She was trying to now because Bucky was there and Bucky's ma was there and she wanted her child to live. She was trying, but she was weary. She didn't have the strength to face this.

"Faith, Sarah," Bucky's ma whispered as she dunked a washcloth into the bowl and wrung out the excess. Her weathered hands worked, sure and quick. She pulled Steve's nightshirt open and laid the damp cloth on his chest. "Your boy's got more fight in him than anyone I know. He'll pull through. You know he will."

Steve's mother was not convinced, but she nodded all the same. Her hands shook as she cupped Steve's face, pushing his floppy, lusterless blond hair off his brow. "He's burning up."

"We have to get it out of his head," Bucky's ma answered. "You know that. We'll get it down, and he'll come around. Coffee, James. Good, strong coffee."

Bucky didn't want to leave, but he did as he was told. He fished around in the dim light of the kitchen for the coffee pot. He could hear them praying. He recognized a verse from the Bible. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makeith me to lie down in green pastures…" It was dark outside now, and he'd long since missed his date. He thought about Lucy Simmons, a pretty thing with red hair and green eyes and curves in all the right places. He'd meant what he'd said about setting Steve up with her sister. She was a nice girl, soft-spoken and shy, the sort Steve needed. Bucky would talk Lucy into it. He'd charm her into rescheduling their date. They'd still go dancing. Steve was a horrible dancer. He needed practice if he was ever going to get himself a girl.

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

Bucky burned himself on the stove and swore vulgarly and loudly and kicked the cabinet. Everything rattled and his temper broke and he cried. The tears came hot and harsh, and once he started, he couldn't stop. He could hear his ma in the other room. Damn this place. The walls were nothing more than paper. "James?"

He sniffled and swallowed the sob building in his throat. "I'm alright, ma!"

He wasn't. But he could lie. He was damn good at it. "Hurry with the coffee," came his ma's gruff order. "And more water. Cool water. Maybe get some snow from outside. Clean snow, nothing no dog's come near."

"Steve, baby." He could hear Steve's mother, too. "Sweet child. Wake up, darling." Her words failed her, so she started praying again. It was soft and quick, teeming with love. Bucky's ma was praying with her. He left them to it and went to get the snow.

When he came back, Steve's mother was standing in the kitchen. Her face was wet and worn. She had finished making the coffee. "You go to him," she implored. Her voice was nothing more than a whisper. "He'll come back for you. He loves you."

"Mrs. Rogers–"

"Please." She didn't smile. She was beyond anything but a desperate wish for her son to live. "He loves you. You don't know what it means to him that you've stuck with him for so long."

"I–"

"He's not listening to me. But he'll listen to you. He'll come back for you. He'll do anything for you, James. He'll follow you anywhere."

Bucky wasn't sure there was anything he could do, and he was terrified both by that and by the fact that she was asking him. Mindlessly he walked back to the bedroom, carrying the bowl of snow. It was already melting. His ma looked up, singing Steve a song she used to sing Bucky when he'd been a boy and sick. Her face was warm, framed in dark, curly hair that had come loose of its braid. "Give me the snow," she said. Bucky handed it to her, and she lowered a washcloth into it before pressing it to Steve's sweaty chest. Bucky thought he could count Steve's ribs. He thought he could see every difficult pulse of Steve's heart under that emaciated skin. The anger came back, harsh and vicious, and his heart pounded and his throat locked up and he wanted to scream. They wanted to pray. What sort of God would do this to someone as nice and kind and compassionate as Steve? What sort of God would curse someone so strong and brave and noble with such a weak body that constantly pained and failed him? No God that was worth praying to, that was for sure.

And it was his birthday, for Pete's sake. His birthday. His best friend, his brother, was going to die on his birthday.

"It ain't fair, ma," Bucky whispered.

"Life rarely is," his ma answered.

* * *

This isn't fair either. It's not. And there isn't a damn thing he can do to fix it. This day started out like any other, too. Breakfast with the team in Stark Tower. Clint and Tony bickering. Bruce engrossed in some sort of project. Natasha watching the news but really listening to Thor as he loudly regaled some sort of tale of Asgardian might and glory to Sam. Steve made breakfast. They ate, and they talked, this strange family of legends and heroes and villains turned into heroes. After that Steve and Bucky went for a run. Steve was telling him about some new modification to Iron Man on which Tony was working. Bucky pretended to care; he always did when Steve talked shop, even back during the war when he chattered and fretted and worried about the Commandos. Bucky wanted to watch the Dodgers game that night, but Steve couldn't. He already made plans with Sharon. He told Bucky he thinks he loves her, really loves her. Bucky actually wondered when life had gotten so fundamentally screwed up that Steve was going out on a date with a beautiful girl and leaving him home alone. It was one of those thoughts that felt like _Bucky_ alone and not Bucky plus the Winter Soldier or the Winter Soldier. Those were coming more and more these days, and it felt good.

But then the call came in. And the Avengers assembled. They left New York in a flurry, dressed in uniforms and determination, bearing shields and bows and guns and hammers and confidence. And they'll come back without their captain.

_No. He'll follow me anywhere, and I'm going home. So he'll come home, too._

Steve's getting delirious. He's calling for Sharon. Bucky keeps offering to get her, but every time he does, Steve comes back to himself enough to remember that he doesn't want her there. He doesn't want her last memories of him to be this, suffering and bleeding and weakness. He doesn't want her to see that, for it to scar her. So he makes Bucky promise not to let her in, but then he forgets a minute or two later when the pain gets worse and they're back where they were. Steve's crushing his fingers, so he trades his human one for the metal one and lets Steve squeeze it as hard as he wants.

Eventually Steve tells him to go, too, because he doesn't want Bucky to remember him like this either. He doesn't want Bucky to have this as his last image of him. He doesn't want Bucky to watch him die. "I'm not going, so shut up. You think I'm gonna let you go through this by yourself? No way in hell, Rogers."

"This is the end of the line," Steve says.

"No, it's not."

"Bucky, please promise me…"

"Is this all you care about?" The tears come again. He can't hold them back. His voice is rough and twisted. "I'm not picking up your goddamn shield! I'm not taking your place! I'm not!"

"Please," Steve whispers. "I gotta know you're gonna take care of the team. Take care of 'em. Take care of Sharon. Please, Buck. Please." _The world needs Captain America._

He sighs and sobs. "Fine. Alright. If it's so damn important to you, _fine._" _I'm not worthy of it. I'm not worthy of it. I'm dark. I'm damaged. I can't be Captain America._ _I don't want to be Captain America. I don't want to take your place. You're Captain America, not me. I don't want to be Captain America! _He wants to say these things. He wants to scream them. He almost does. But he stops himself because Steve doesn't need to hear his doubts, his anger. His grief. The relief splayed all over Steve's grimacing face is enough of a deterrent. And seeing the small smile that curls his lips is enough of a sign that he's done the right thing. Steve has so much faith in him. He always has.

Bucky doesn't know what he'll do without that.

_Don't worry. Steve will follow you. He'll stay with you. You'll bring him home._ _You'll call, and he'll come back._

* * *

The priest came. Bucky ignored his knock at the door, ignored Steve's mother getting up from the side of the bed to go answer it, ignored the relieved expression on his own ma's face as she kissed Steve's cheek gently and set her hands on Bucky's shoulders and stands behind him. "We need to pray for his soul," she said. Even she was giving up now.

Bucky stared angrily at Steve's face. His breath was nothing more than a weak wheeze through slightly parted and dried out lips. He hadn't moved in hours. He hadn't opened his eyes in hours. They were sallow and sunken. His fever was killing him. "He's not gonna die, ma," Bucky insisted. Nobody believed him. Nobody believed that Steve was strong, that Steve could fight. Nobody believed that Steve was meant for more than this. _Nobody._

Father Flannigan entered the room. He was there to give Steve his Last Rites. He came with a sad look on his clean-shaven face, sad and regretful that a fifteen year-old boy should face so much suffering fighting for his life all of these years only to be taken from this world anyway. It was wrong and unfair and senseless. The priest's eyes were deep and dark and full of compassion for Steve's mother, who began crying anew as she returned to Steve's bedside. He had his Bible and big, weathered hands that he set to Steve's forehead and Mrs. Rogers' shoulder where she knelt. She closed her eyes, tears slipping down her white countenance, and lowered her head, clasping her hands before her in prayer. Bucky's ma came from behind him to kneel. She crossed herself. Bucky did, too. But he didn't lower his eyes. He watched Steve breathe.

The priest spoke. His voice was soft and strong, unfaltering even as the tiny, dark room closed in around them and suffocated them. He led them in prayer. They whispered and wept. Bucky did neither. He just kept watching Steve breathe. He wasn't praying for his soul. He was willing the next breath to come, the next heartbeat. He was begging for Steve's body to keep living. Steve didn't give up. Steve never had and never would. So Bucky couldn't give up either.

It seemed to go on forever. The night was deep and dark and heavy. Endless. But it ended. And when it was done, Steve's mother was exhausted. Her eyes were swollen and red. Father Flannigan took her hand in both of his own and whispered consolation, leading her away from her son's withered body. Bucky didn't feel at all comforted or absolved by his gentle words. And he wasn't going to sit there and wait for Steve to die like they were. When his mother and Steve's mother were gone, he climbed back onto the bed and lay beside Steve and stretched his arm across his thin shoulders. He buried his face into hot, clammy skin. Steve's mother said Steve listened to him. So he talked. "Stevie, you gotta wake up now. You hear me? You gotta wake up. You can't die on me. Not today. Come on. It's my birthday."

Steve said nothing. He didn't move. He barely breathed. Bucky choked on his words. "Steve, please. Listen to me. Come back. I'm sure God's got a place for you up there. You deserve it more than anyone, but it ain't time yet. I need you here. I need you with me. You can't die. Please. I need you. I need you. You hear me? _I need you._" He closed his eyes against the tears. _God, please don't take him… Please let him stay. Please send him back to me. _And then he prayed. All night, he prayed. And he waited.

* * *

"Hail Mary," he breathes, "full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…" His voice falters. He loses his will. This is the only prayer he can recall. All those Sundays. All those times his ma boxed his ears for not taking it seriously, for not saying his prayers. This is all he can do. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

Bucky sniffs. Steve doesn't hear him because he's sleeping again. Bucky doesn't know if he will wake up this time. The monitors say no. Steve's heart is barely beating. He's barely breathing. He's barely there at all. There's no fight left. No struggle. _Nothing._

Nothing aside from Bucky's faith. It's not what it used to be. He's not who he used to be, even if he's in the same place, whispering the same things and holding onto the same hopes. He's not sure he believes in God. But he knows he believes in Steve. He believes in their friendship. Steve taught him how again. Steve gave him back his life and all of his memories. And his memories are telling him that Steve is going to live. Bucky draws a deep breath, a breath that sounds hollow and weak and _mechanical_, and he starts again. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…"

* * *

He fell asleep.

When he woke up, he was alone. Sometime during the night they'd moved his weary body into the ripped and worn chair beside the bed. He opened his eyes to find the bed empty. _Empty._ Steve was dead. Steve had died during the night. Bucky released a ragged cry and lurched out of his chair, screaming his misery. "What?" His ma came running, panting and pale. "What, boy? What?"

Bucky couldn't think. He couldn't form words. Everything was lost and dim despite the morning's pale light coming through the snowy window. Nothing was quite real, like a waking nightmare twisting around him and dragging him down. He collapsed at the bedside, sobbing and wailing against the pain clenching and crushing his heart. Hot tears bled from his eyes, and he buried his face in his hands and succumbed to the grief. It had happened so fast. So fast. And nothing he'd done had stopped it.

Steve was gone.

"He's not gone, son," soothed his ma.

For a long moment, he didn't make sense of the words. He slowly lifted his aching eyes from his hands and looked to her. She was beside him, her own eyes glittering with unshed tears. "He'll live. He's okay."

Bucky was up and on his feet in a breath and tearing through the tiny apartment. He charged back out into the short hallway. Two huge steps took him into the main living area. Steve was sitting in a chair, _sitting up_, with a blanket draped over his lap and another over his shoulders. His mother was standing beside him, spooning thin broth into his mouth. When he spotted Bucky, his white and worn face broke into a ridiculously huge grin. Bucky didn't return it. The hurt inside him was hollow and hungry, a vacuous pit that wasn't relieved so easily. "You don't do that again," he snapped, wiping furiously at his still leaking eyes. "You hear me? You never do that again!"

"I'm okay," Steve said. He didn't sound okay. Alive, but not okay. His voice was still weak and shaky. His breathing was still strained. And his eyes were alight but there was a shade of something that wasn't there before. They'd find out a few weeks later that the rheumatic fever permanently damaged Steve's heart. There was a murmur in his chest that hadn't been there before. Years later it would be one of many things that would keep him from enlisting. And it would be one of the many things that would be healed when he became Captain America.

But right now he was weak and pale and looked every bit like a kid who'd barely survived a dangerous bout with a deadly illness. And Bucky looked every bit like a kid who'd been scared to death by his best friend nearly losing his life. "It's okay," Steve promised. "Happy birthday, Buck."

Bucky knelt in front of Steve, wondering how he'd been so lucky to have God listen, to have God send him back from heaven. It made him feel like he'd really been given a gift. He couldn't keep his relief and joy in now. Couldn't swallow down the knot in his throat. He smiled through his tears. "You stupid punk. You owe me a date with Lucy Simmons."

"James!" Bucky's ma was aghast with that and threatened to never let him near Steve again for being so rude and thoughtless. Steve's mother smiled feebly and kept gingerly and carefully feeding Steve to get his strength up. He already had some back, because he grabbed Bucky's hand and held on as tight as he could.

* * *

Bucky has to let go of Steve now. The doctors are rushing in, dressed in the suits, fumbling with equipment in a desperate, final attempt to save Steve's life. The Avengers are outside, watching with vacant, lost eyes. Angry eyes. Terrified eyes. Bucky's watching, too. There are alarms wailing. So many alarms. They're trying to bring him back. They're trying so hard. They pump at an unmoving chest. They've got a tube down his throat now to force oxygen into lungs that aren't breathing anymore. They're injecting drugs that are supposed to drive life and energy back into a body that's long since given up the fight. They're trying to bring him back.

He's not coming back.

The doctors are defeated, moving away, giving up. Steve is still and unmoving. His eyes are closed. The monitors are crying a monotonous wail. The doctors turn them off. One of them calls time of death. Bucky doesn't listen, and he doesn't see or hear the Avengers fall apart outside the room behind them. They're lost and suffering. Tony and Bruce and Thor. Sam and Natasha and Clint. Sharon shakes her head, sobbing, her face taut with agony as she pleads and _begs _for Steve to come back.

But Steve's not coming back.

He's not because Bucky hasn't called him back yet. That's what he's supposed to do now. He's the only one who can. Bucky goes back to the bed. "Hey, Stevie," he whispers, reaching for a cold hand. It's not good enough. Frustrated he yanks off the gloves and tears away the head gear and he can _breathe_ again. The air smells fresh. Someone is screaming at him to stop, but he doesn't listen to that, either. He can't play his part trapped behind a wall. "Steve, it's me."

Steve doesn't say anything. Bucky leans over him and grasps the sides of his face. "You gonna come back this time?" So many times before he's done it. The fever. The serum. The ice. Falling into the river. All the times he's fallen and come back. "You have to, Steve. We need you. I need you. You can't die. You're Captain America. If I have to be, I will be, but I don't want to be. _You're_ Captain America."

There are tears pouring freely down his face, hot and salty on his lips. He kisses Steve as hard as he can on his forehead and lifts his body into his arms. These are the final lines. The end of it. "I know God's got a place for you up there," he says in Steve's ear, his voice cracking. "And I know you damn well deserve it. But I want you back. You hear me? I need you. I need you._ Come back to me._"

Somewhere, somehow, he knows Steve hears him.

So he closes his eyes. He waits. And he prays.

* * *

One afternoon, when the first hot day of summer was really upon Brooklyn, Steve's mother let Bucky take him outside. They didn't go much beyond the stoop of their apartment building. They sat on one of the old benches, side by side. Quiet and comfortable and relieved. The whole world was out there in front of them again. They could see it. Feel it. And they were going to go and face it together.

Bucky gave Steve a piece of black licorice, the kind he liked best, and they ate in silence for a while. Then Steve tipped back his head and closed his eyes. "You know why I came back?" he asked suddenly.

Bucky didn't want to talk about it. Not really, anyway. Those long hours he spent watching Steve slowly die were among the worst of his life, and he didn't want to go back there. So he tried to mask it with a joke. Just like he always did. "Why? Jealous I'd be getting all the girls for myself?" Steve snorted. Bucky grinned and ripped off another chunk of licorice. He chewed it and chewed it and made himself swallow. "God kicked your scrawny ass out of heaven?" Steve glanced at him and then rolled his eyes. "You like making my life miserable. That's gotta be it."

Steve huffed and gave Bucky a knowing, grateful smile. "What?" Bucky prodded. Steve hesitated, embarrassed. "Don't be a jerk. _What?_"

"You'll think I'm stupid."

"I already think you're stupid."

Steve grunted a laugh and leaned just a little closer. Bucky wrapped his arm around his shoulders and pulled him the rest of the way. "I just… I thought I heard you calling me."

**THE END**


End file.
